Rebuttal Day, Fibucetera 15, 40 A.B.


The following entry should be opened, read, and then shut.
Anyone caught opening it and then just standing there peering endlessly inside with their mouth hanging open will be reprimanded, then sent to their room.
It's not like I can afford to cool the entire Internet with this poor journal, after all.
So let's go already - shove as many of the following words into your mind
as will fit and go digest their meaning somewhere else.

Thank You


     I've recently been described as a pervert.
     Yes, me.
     Why?  Because my major appliance fetish once again slipped its leash and refused to stop licking my face until I had asked someone for details about her, umm, "kitchen furnishings."
     Yes, I asked for explicit details.
     Yes, I was especially interested in explicit details about the most erotic and maybe even the most unavoidably arousing of all her major appliances.
     This simply does not a pervert make!
     I ask you:  Is it really perverted to not be able to sleep until one has learned whether a woman one admires likes her freezer on the top or the bottom?
     Is it really perverted to wonder if said woman prefers modern multi-color side-by-sides or a Honeymooners'-style antique icebox?
     Is it really and truly perverted to casually inquire as to the last time an obviously special person has had their ice cube trays rotated, their crisper drawer thoroughly explored, or their butter compartment licked clean by the light of a single flickering bulb?
     I consider it mere normal conversation - no more, no less.  
     Indeed, I'm sure if you'd ask my friends, they'd tell you that such talk is far more normal than 83% of the words that come from my mind, so - far from being a sign of perversion - these attempts to exchange intimate refrigerator details with a woman I've never met actually constitute remarkable restraint.
     I mean, I used to go to frat parties just to talk to the women there about U.S. - Cuban relations.  Now, that was perverted!  I admit it!  But this - well, this is nothing more than enameled-surfaces preoccupation, mere in-home throbbing motor obsession - that's all.  The fact that I almost swooned when I was told by this woman that her dreamy appliances were Sears brand, that they were quite expensive, and that her refrigerator in particular is positively luxurious with promise, holding as it does "the tastiest of treats" and "a sweet juice" that "oozes and collects in a sticky puddle" - that's mere coincidence, let me assure you.  Some people are capable of making me almost swoon regardless of what they're saying.
     And let the record also show that it was she who could have cut me off cold by simply slamming her egg-holding door in my face, so to speak - but she did not.  No!  Indeed, instead of anything of the sort, she actually coolly inquired what other details I cared to know in precisely that coquettish way that indicates that she's probably been thinking about major appliances herself more than she has ever cared to admit.
     Why, I wouldn't be surprised if she's spent actual, physical time with them all alone in her kitchen today!
     Now, that's what we really ought to be worried about here.  It's one thing for a man to be kept safely off the streets with harmless cyber talk of door magnet placement preferences,  temperature setting adjustment fantasies, and swipe-by-swipe descriptions of one's most recent rear coil cleanings.  It's quite another thing for a talented woman who could be writing the Great American Novel to be spending all her free time whipping up innocent food on her stove just because her husband demands it. 

     Really, Sweetie - there's far more to life than that.  And I'm not a pervert for saying so.  Really, I'm not!  If only you would believe me I'm sure life could be so much better for both of us.  
     So come on - what do you say?  How about if instead of keeping me here with cord limply dangling in my hand you put aside both your inhibitions and the oven cleaner and we find out together just how smoothly and quietly those bottom drawers of yours can open?
     That is where you keep your Forbidden Fruit, isn't it?
     Mmmmm, can't wait to see if it's the classic, all-natural type or the genetically modified stuff I've been hearing so much about lately....
     Or we can just stay here and explore the putrefying celery in mine.

     The shiny chrome handle is in your court.

Oooo - smooth!  Have you been spraying your drawers with Pam again?


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(©Now by Dan Birtcher while listening to his unbalanced load banging away)